


Old Dogs, New Tricks

by Kithri



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16142606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri
Summary: Wishful thinking, tiredness and an old woman’s fancy. That was all this could ever be. This was Morgan, after all, and Morgan would never in a million years feel for Jean the way that Jean felt for her.





	Old Dogs, New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SadieFlood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieFlood/gifts).



“What’s up, Doc?” Morgan drawled as she stuck her head around the open door to Jean’s cramped and crowded office.

Jean didn’t need to look to know that Morgan was wearing a familiar lopsided grin, but she did anyway, careful to lean back so her chair didn’t dip on its wobbly wheel as she turned herself around to face her not-unwelcome visitor. She was unable to stop her own lips from curving into a fond smile even as she made a show of rolling her eyes and sniffing.

“Not a doctor, technically,” she said in response, just as she always did.

Morgan’s grin broadened and she folded the rest of herself around the doorframe, sliding into the one area of open space behind Jean’s chair as if it had been made for her. “You run the clinic. You heal the sick and the wounded. You are a doctor. You’re” —the pause was minuscule, barely even there, but Jean heard it anyway— “our doctor.”

“Yes, well. You’d all be better off with a doctor who still has her license.” The pain of that loss had been dulled by years, but it was still there; a nagging little ache just below her ribcage. Or maybe that was just her old knife wound playing up. Or maybe indigestion? Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth dwelling on.

Morgan made a scoffing sound. “You see any of those fancy pants licensed doctors slumming it around here?” She held Jean’s gaze, her expression softening as she shuffled forward — there really wasn’t room for a full step — to lean against the desk, somehow managing to make what should have been a cramped and twisted pose seem fluid and graceful. Jean tried to tell herself it was merely envy of a younger woman’s flexibility that made her breath hitch and her fingers tighten on the arms of her chair. “Besides, we’re plenty happy with you. You’re a damn good doctor.” Morgan grinned again and gestured to the drawer where Jean kept a still mostly-full bottle of whiskey. “Especially since you’ve cut down on the ol’ rotgut.”

“You’d drink too if you’d seen some of the things I have to deal with,” Jean muttered, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Some of her restlessness was due to the memories that rose up despite her best efforts to shove them back in their boxes where they belonged. Most of it, though, was the fact that Morgan was so damn close. Her skin prickled with goosebumps as if it was trying to bridge the gap between them and she was painfully aware of how easy it would be to just reach out and…

“I know you’ve been through a lot, Doc.” Morgan’s voice was hoarse, her eyes dark with some emotion that set butterflies a-flapping in the pit of Jean’s stomach. “And I respect the hell out of the fact that you’re still standing — still fighting — despite everything that tried to knock you down.”

Jean scoffed, reaching up to take her glasses off and set them aside, mostly just to give her hands something to do. “You should save your respect for someone who deserves it,” she said tartly. “Someone who didn’t spend years hiding from the world while she patched up criminals.”

“You’re not hiding now.”

Jean looked up and was instantly snared by Morgan’s intense gaze. She felt the moment of connection almost like a physical thing, like a jolt of electricity coursing through her body. Her breath hitched in her throat, in time with Morgan’s soft gasp, and she must have been imagining that Morgan leaned in fractionally; that her pupils expanded so that they almost swallowed her irises. That the expression on her face looked so much like longing that it sent an answering pang of need juddering through Jean’s own chest. None of that was more than wishful thinking and tiredness and an old woman’s fancy. It couldn’t have been, because this was Morgan, and Morgan would never in a million years feel for Jean the way Jean felt for her.

“No, guess not,” Jean said, because she had to say something or she’d end up doing something, and if she did something they’d both regret it. Morgan was a good friend and that was all. That was all she could ever be. Nothing was worth risking what they had; what they’d built over the years since the Artemis. No matter how much a part of her wanted… more.

Morgan coughed and turned away, moving back to stand in the doorway. “And you’re doing good work here,” she said, her tone stronger, declarative.

Jean tried not to feel bereft at the loss of that closeness. She felt a sudden, stupid urge to reach out and pull her back, but she quashed it ruthlessly, as she did all such unwise urges. “Trying to,” she sighed, glowering down at her pad and the inventory that stubbornly refused to multiply itself, no matter how much she shuffled the numbers around. “I think we might have a bad batch of nanites. Not sure if it’s a manufacturing fault, bad code or if they’re just past their use-by date. I’ve got a few tricks and workarounds I can try, but…” She shrugged, knowing she didn’t need to explain to Morgan how disastrous faulty nanites could be. Failing to work at all would be bad enough, but she shuddered to think what could happen if they worked, but did the wrong thing.

“Give me the batch number,” Morgan said, the determined note in her voice sending a pleasant shiver down Jean’s spine. “I’ll chase up Rico and see what he has to say for himself. Maybe I can scare us up a replacement batch.”

“What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on that wall,” Jean murmured distractedly as she tapped her pad and forwarded the relevant information to Morgan.

“Nah,” Morgan said, laughing a little self-consciously. “I don’t think I’d want you to see me playing the hardass.”

“Playing?” Jean found a grin tugging at her lips, unused to seeing Morgan this flustered even when suffering from the combined effects of blood loss, concussion and surgical anaesthesia. She even looked like… Was she blushing? “You’re a cop, Morgan. I thought you were a professional hardass.”

“I’m a community liaison officer,” Morgan protested, her cheeks definitely looking a little pink. “I’m supposed to be approachable.”

“Ah, I’m just messing with ya,” Jean said fondly. “You’re plenty approachable, believe me.”

“You mean that?” There was that jolt of electricity again as Morgan’s gaze captured and held hers. Jean thought she could drown in those eyes.

“Yeah. Of course.” Her mouth was moving on autopilot, but she was too distracted to make it stop. “I couldn’t stay away from you if I tried.” A beat later, she realised what she’d said. Something shifted in Morgan’s expression, and the air was suddenly electric with tension, pressing down on Jean like in the moments just before a storm. “Anyway,” Jean blurted out before Morgan could speak, “what brings you to my office today? Are you sick?”

“What?” For a second, Morgan looked almost conflicted, but then her expression cleared, settling back into her usual grin. “No, I was just in the area and thought I’d stop by to make sure you weren’t working yourself to death.”

Jean rolled her eyes, thankful to be back on safer ground. “You can quit with the mothering, Morgan. I’m not working myself to death.”

“No?” Morgan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Does that mean you’ve actually had lunch?”

Jean tried not to shift guiltily in her seat. “I was going to,” she muttered. “I just had a few things to finish up first.” Naturally, her stomach picked that moment to betray her by rumbling loudly. The sound seemed to fill the room, reverberating like thunder in the small space, but that was probably just her embarrassment-skewed perception. Probably. From the knowing smirk on Morgan’s face though, the sound of her body’s rebellion had definitely been audible. “Anyway, like you’ve never gotten caught up in something and forgotten to eat,” she grumbled, covering her chagrin with querulousness. Chagrin, and the soft, warm feeling that curled through her at yet another piece of evidence that Morgan cared. Not that Jean would ever admit she kind of liked being fussed over, although she had a sneaking suspicion that Morgan had already figured that out. “Not that I forgot,” she hastened to add.

“Uhuh.”

“So I skipped one meal. It’s not exactly going to do me any harm.”

“It’s not just one though. Is it.” Morgan sounded far too sure of herself to be bluffing. Or did she?

Jean studied her for a moment before replying. “Says who?”

Morgan laughed. “Do you really expect me to give up a CI just like that? I thought you knew me better than that, Doc.”

“You—” Outrage propelled Jean forward, and she spent an undignified moment or two flailing desperately for balance as that damned wobbly wheel almost gave up the ghost completely. Staying upright more out of stubbornness that anything else, she glowered up at Morgan, silently daring her to say something about that brush with catastrophe. Morgan’s smirk may have deepened just a little, but she kept her silence. That was probably for the best. “Who’s been telling tales on me?” Jean demanded. “Is is Layla? I bet it’s Layla. She always makes such a fuss.”

The woman had the makings of a damn good nurse, though.

“My lips are sealed. Anyway, you have other things to worry about.” Before Jean could protest, Morgan fixed her with a stern look, beckoning peremptorily. “Jean Thomas, you’re coming with me.”

“What?” Jean was embarrassed to realise she was already shoving herself to her feet. She made the best of it, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing Morgan with her fiercest glower. Her pulse was racing and her cheeks felt hot; hopefully Morgan would take any visible flush for annoyance, rather than… any other feelings that might have been stirred up by hearing her name on Morgan’s lips and in that tone. “What are you talking about?”

Morgan flashed a brilliant smile that damn near took Jean’s breath away, holding up a bag Jean hadn’t even realised she’d been carrying. “I’m taking you to lunch.”

What felt like moments later, Jean was following Morgan out onto the roof of the clinic, blinking against the brilliance of the afternoon sunshine. It was bright enough to pierce LA’s perpetual blanket of smog; a luminous yellow thumbprint pressed into the orange-red inferno of the sky. Jean felt a brief pang of mourning for the blue skies of her youth, but she pushed it aside, telling herself there was no point in getting maudlin.

“Layla and Susie’s garden seems to be coming along well,” she said, eying the boxes of earth with their miniature forests of trellises and greenery, and the rain barrels scattered between them. There was a lopsided glass box covering what she thought might have been unripe tomatoes. Or maybe peppers? She never really was much of a gardener. Or a cook. Anyway, who could afford fresh vegetables regularly these days unless they grew their own? And growing shit was hard in a desert, especially when you had to pay through the nose for water.

“Yeah.” Morgan beamed like a proud parent. “Maintaining the soil pH is a bitch and a half, but we managed to get hold of some strains that seem to tolerate the higher acidity a little better, so we’re hoping for an improved yield with this crop.”

Jean blinked at Morgan a little uncertainly. “We? Do you potter about up here too?”

“Not really, unless Layla and Susie need an extra pair of hands. But I’m one of the organisers of the community kitchen garden project, so we often end up comparing notes.” She shrugged, the motion seeming a little stiff to Jean. Was Morgan feeling self-conscious? “I’m trying to set up a bit more of a formal collaboration, where people can share information, equipment and cuttings. That kind of thing.”

“That’s great.” A soft warm feeling gathered inside Jean as she thought about Morgan persuading the many green-fingered inhabitants of the area to work together in a way that would benefit all of them, and the community as a whole. “I bet you’re really good at it.”

That there was a community garden project at all — let alone a successful one — was nothing short of a miracle. Things were better now, years after the water riots and the Wolf King’s fall, but it still couldn’t have been easy. Although if anyone could pull it off, she’d bet cash money it would be Morgan.

“I try,” Morgan shrugged again. “I mean, it’s early days yet. But most people seem to see the benefit. I’m also trying to persuade people who have suitable land but aren’t interested in working it themselves to let other people put it to use. The owners — well, mostly renters — would either get a fee, or a share of the produce. Something. I don’t know. We’re still working out the details.”

“You’re amazing,” Jean blurted out, that soft, warm feeling suffusing her whole body; spilling out into her voice and into the smile that spread across her face without her intending it. “I— We’re so lucky to have you. The community I mean.”

Morgan ducked her head a little, an almost shy smile on her face. “Just doing my job, that’s all.”

The sight of that smile made Jean swallow hard and bite her lip, her hands almost trembling with the effort of keeping them down by her sides. Longing raced through her like a wildfire and she was half-surprised her flesh didn’t burst into flames from the heat of it.

_Say something,_ she ordered herself furiously, painfully aware of the silence pressing down on her, heavy with all the words she couldn’t allow herself to set free.

“I don’t think you ever ‘just’ did anything in your life,” she managed. “Going above and beyond is your normal.” Case in point: everything Morgan had done — and was still doing — to make Jean’s little technically-illegal-but-much-needed clinic viable. It was largely thanks to her that Jean had a purpose again; one she could feel proud of. And maybe that wasn’t the reason why Morgan had done it — or, at least, not the main reason — but Jean loved her for it anyway.

_Shit._

“I could say the same about you.”

Once again, Morgan was looking at her with a dark, intense gaze. Once again, her heart thumped against her ribcage as the world wobbling vertiginously around her. Once again, she found herself scrambling for something, anything to distract herself from succumbing to a pull that felt as inevitable as gravity and just as merciless.

“That’s new,” Jean said, pointing at an ornate cast-iron bench wedged between an ailing AC unit and a small storage shed. “Isn’t it?”

Morgan hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, trailing a hand over the back of it as she moved to take a seat. “House clearance,” she said. “It was going to be thrown out, but some enterprising souls rescued it. No idea how they got it up here, but I’m not complaining.” She smiled up at Jean and patted the space beside her invitingly. “Better than sitting on a crate, or an upturned bucket.”

“Or the ground,” Jean muttered, careful to leave a reasonable amount of distance between them when she sat down. “My arthritic old knees thank those enterprising souls for sparing them.”

“You’re not that old!” Morgan all-but snapped.

Jean raised her eyebrows at the unexpected asperity. “You used to play with my son,” she pointed out mildly. “I am that old.”

“That was a long time ago. Now I’m a grown-ass woman with two kids of my own. We’re not that far apart, trust me.” She unzipped the picnic bag with a sharp, almost angry motion, and started taking out the contents, setting them on the bench between them.

Jean studied Morgan for a moment, but then opted to cover her uncertainty with bluntness. “What crawled up your ass?”

“Nothing,” Morgan snapped, but then she paused and took a breath, embarrassment staining her cheeks a faint pink. “Nothing,” she repeated, more softly. “Sorry.” Jean frowned, but Morgan was continuing before she could speak. “Anyway, let’s eat.”

“Fine by me.” She took the box Morgan pressed into her hands, trying not to look too eager. “What is it?”

“Sausage casserole with spiced rice.”

“Nice.” She pushed the button to activate the heating element, waiting impatiently for it to do its job. While she’d been focused on trying to put out one — thankfully metaphorical — fire after another, she really hadn’t felt hungry at all. Now that food was actually in her grasp however, it felt like there was a void in her stomach, consuming her from the inside out. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that perhaps Morgan might have had a point. “Thanks, Morgan. I owe you one.”

“Nah.” Morgan flashed her that lopsided grin again, and Jean’s stomach flipped. “Just protecting my investment.”

“Oh, is that what I am to you? An investment?” The pressure was back again — not that it had ever really gone away — and there was an inexplicable lump in her throat. Shaking off the silly feelings, she tried to plaster a smile on her face, striving for a light tone; something that made it clear she was playing along with Morgan’s humour. “Good to know where we stand, I guess.” The words came out flat and strange, almost hurt-sounding. Which was utterly and completely ridiculous, and now Morgan was surging forward, only to pull back at the last minute and pin her with a look.

_Say something,_ Jean told herself, again, but her tongue lay leaden and still in her mouth.

“Jean…” The word was little more than an exhalation of breath, barely audible even at this distance, but it echoed in her mind like a shout. Jean wanted to tear her gaze away, but she was frozen like a deer in headlights. “Jean,” Morgan said again, hoarsely. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I was just joking. You know you’re more than that, don’t you?”

Jean’s pulse was like gunfire in her ears, her lungs seizing like she’d been shot in the chest. _Say something,_ she almost pleaded with herself, and maybe the third time was the charm, because her mouth opened and words came out.

“Of course I know.” It felt like she had a mouthful of sand, the words scraping painfully over her suddenly-parched throat. “We’re friends.”

Something flashed briefly in the depths of Morgan’s gaze; there and gone in an instant before her expression shuttered, her lips twitching into a smile that didn’t go beyond her mouth.

“That’s right, Doc,” she said, her words ringing with cheer. “And don’t you forget it.” She dropped her gaze to the bench between them, snagging a thermos that Jean didn’t remember seeing her pull from the bag. “I brought coffee. The good stuff, even. Eat your lunch and I’ll let you have some. And for dessert, there’s—”

“Stop.” Jean almost didn’t recognise her own voice, and it felt like half of her instincts were screaming at her to shut up, to let Morgan smooth over this awkwardness by focusing on the food. But the other half of her instincts were screaming something else. Because the glimpse of raw emotion she’d seen in Morgan’s eyes had looked a lot like pain, a lot like disappointment, and she couldn’t help remembering that infinitesimal hesitation before Morgan had said ‘our doctor’. So she set the plastic container aside and reached out to place a trembling hand on Morgan’s forearm. “Morgan.” She took a breath, the ground seeming to drop out beneath her, leaving her in free-fall. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Morgan’s gaze flicked up, giving Jean just enough time to see that her eyes were wide enough to show a rim of white around her irises before dropping again to fasten onto Jean’s hand. Her skin was warm and soft against Jean’s calloused palm, and Jean had to swallow hard against a sudden tide of feeling that seemed to set her whole body aflame. “Nothing’s wrong,” Morgan said, shrugging. “Why would you think something’s wrong?” The more she talked, the more confident she sounded, straightening her spine and putting her shoulders back. “Anyway, your casserole’s probably heated up by now. You don’t want to let it get cold. Technically the box does have another charge, but it never seems to heat up properly the second t—”

“I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Morgan stared at Jean. Jean stared back at Morgan. The silence wrapped around them like a silk cocoon, growing thicker and heavier with every moment that passed. Regrets clustered like moths inside Jean’s throat, the pressure of their fluttering wings building and building until she couldn’t keep them back any longer. She opened her mouth to let them out, only for Morgan to still the tide with a kiss.

Electricity arced through her from the contact, and she slid her hand up Morgan’s arm to pull her in closer, not even caring that the objects on the bench between them were sent tumbling to the ground. Morgan’s lips were warm and soft, her mouth tasting faintly of citrus. For a shining, perfect moment, a sense of unassailable rightness filled Jean’s whole being, but then the doubts started to filter in. Were her own lips dry? Did she have coffee-breath? Was it obvious that it had been a while since she’d kissed anyone? Maybe she twitched, or made a sound, or Morgan had just had enough. Whatever the reason, one moment they were kissing, and the next Jean was bereft.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan breathed, bringing one hand halfway to her own lips, only to let it fall limp in her lap. “I shouldn’t have… I should have asked. I’m sorry.”

“What? No, I didn’t mind.” That was such an understatement that it was funny. Or it would have been if Morgan didn’t look so distraught.

“You froze.” She twisted her fingers together in her lap, one foot tapping restlessly on the floor.

There was a cowardly part of Jean that wanted to tell Morgan that this had been a mistake, that they should never speak of it again, that they should just go back to the way things were. But that would leave Morgan feeling that she’d done something wrong, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t do that to her.

“I got self-conscious,” Jean admitted. “Started worrying about whether I was making a hash of things and then, well…” She shrugged, surprised to find a wry smile on her lips. “Guess it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, huh?”

“So… you really didn’t mind?” Morgan’s voice was still quiet, but there was an intensity to it that made Jean’s breath quicken.

“I really, really, really didn’t mind.”

“And what if I did it again?”

Jean shifted a little on the bench and opened her mouth to tell Morgan that would be just fine with her. Instead, she found herself saying, “Are you sure you want to? You don’t have to spare my feelings, you know.”

_What are you doing?_ she castigated herself. She wanted Morgan to kiss her again; needed Morgan to kiss her again. But those moth wings of doubt hadn’t gone away. They’d just stilled for a time, and now they were a-fluttering once more.

“Spare your feelings?” Morgan echoed, raising her eyebrows. “Jean, I love you too.”

Jean blinked at her. “But the age difference…”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Morgan said firmly.

“But… but you’re straight!”

Morgan gave a deep, throaty chuckle that went through Jean like an arrow, making her shiver and bite her lip. “My ex-girlfriends would be very surprised to hear that,” she said, voice still shaking a little with mirth. “Come on, we’ve talked about some of them.”

“Yeah, well,” Jean muttered, some of the heat in face due to embarrassment. “I didn’t know if you meant girlfriends or, y’know, girlfriends.”

“Well, just to make things absolutely clear…” Morgan leaned in slowly, her lips moving closer, closer, closer… and then past. Jean couldn’t help making a small, disappointed noise deep in her throat; a noise that turned into a gasp when Morgan whispered in her ear, “I meant lovers, Jean.”

_I could hear her say my name all day._

“Oh.” Morgan pulled back again, the wicked glint in her eyes telling Jean she knew exactly what that had done to her. “Well…” Jean cast about for another objection, even though she didn’t quite know why she was doing so, eventually dredging up something that sent a chill through her. “You’ve got children. And I… I’m not…” She forced a breath around the icicle that seemed to have lodged in her chest, making herself get the words out. “I can’t be a mother. I don’t… I can’t do that again. And I wouldn’t ask you to…” What was the word? Why was this so hard? _And this is why I decided not to say anything in the first place._ But that genie wasn’t going back in the bottle, so she was just going to have to suck it up and deal with the consequences. “I won’t make you compartmentalise your life. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Morgan’s expression sobered. She drew in a deep breath in, letting it out in a soft sigh and reaching out to take both of Jean’s hands in hers.

“I’m not asking you to be a mother to my children,” she said quietly. “They already have two parents. My ex-husband and I might not have worked out as a couple, but we’ve got co-parenting on lock.” She paused for a beat, and one corner of her mouth quirked into a ghost of her lopsided grin. “They already know you as their mom’s badass friend. I’m sure they’re gonna be A-OK with you being their mom’s badass girlfriend.” The smile faded into seriousness again, her grip on Jean’s hands tightening fractionally before relaxing again. “If… if that’s what you want.” Another beat and then, all in a rush, “If you don’t, I won’t push. But I think we could really have something, and I’d like to give it a chance. If you want.”

“I do,” Jean whispered, “but I’m scared.”

It was… strange, saying it out loud. Good, maybe. Also utterly and completely terrifying.

“What are you scared of?”

“Losing you. Ruining what we have. I don’t trust easily. I find it hard to let people in. But you…” She shook her head helplessly, groping for the right words. “I want to open up to you. You look at this broken world of ours and rather than falling into despair, you roll up your sleeves and try to fix it. You’re strong, smart, funny, caring” —she coughed, flushing— “and hot as hell. I like being with you, and I like who I am when I’m with you. You make me want to be better.” She looked down, studying their clasped hands for a moment before making herself meet Morgan’s gaze. “More than anything, you’re my best friend, and I really don’t want to spoil that. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Morgan said softly, squeezing her hands again. “We don’t have to rush into anything. We can take it slow, figure out how to make it work. And even if it doesn’t work out, I can’t imagine not wanting to be friends with you.”

Jean swallowed hard. “It’s still a risk.”

“Yeah, it is. But I think it’s worth it. And if you’re willing, I’d really like to give being more than friends a try.”

“Girlfriends,” Jean murmured, just to try the word on for size. She startled herself by laughing. “Makes us sound like we’re a pair of teenagers.”

Morgan laughed too, her mouth curving up into that wry grin of hers that gave Jean butterflies for whole other reasons. “Would you prefer” —she leaned in close enough that Jean could feel her breath on her lip as she murmured the next word in a slow, soft drawl— “lovers?”

“How about—” Jean’s voice cracked, a wave of vertigo crashing through her as if she was looking over the edge of a vast precipice. She had to clear her throat before she continued. “How about we start with a kiss?”

“And then?”

“And then we figure it out.”

_I could be making a huge mistake._ But she’d taken leaps of faith before without everything ending in disaster. But, like Morgan had said, the reward was worth the risk. _But I want this._

Morgan smiled, slow and sweet, leaning forward to murmur her answer against Jean’s lips. “Sounds good to me.”

Jean’s stomach chose that moment to give a thunderous rumble. “Sorry,” she muttered, cringing with embarrassment.

Morgan chuckled softly, but rather than adding to Jean’s mortification, the sound actually seemed to soothe it. She even found a smile on her lips.

“Change of plan,” Morgan said. “First, we kiss. Then we eat while we start figuring this out.”

Jean nodded. “I like this plan.”

Their lips met.


End file.
